Hooper's Hypothesis
by Thorn17
Summary: It's up to Molly to provide the piece of evidence that Sherlock and John fail to notice each time, even when everybody around them sees it straight away. Neither of them would ever have been able to deduce the truth in Hooper's hypothesis.


The sun was just beginning to set over London. Sherlock and I sat in our flat, with the former flicking between channels on the television in the hope of finding a programme to engage his superior intellect. I wasn't holding my breath on this being a successful venture, and so rather than listening to and becoming frustrated at Sherlock's incessant grumbles about the quality of television programmes in general, I stared past him, looking through the window and out onto Baker Street. I focussed my attention on watching the shadows grow longer and the darkness sweep across the sky. I had always loved the soft display of rainbow colours that the dwindling rays of the sun created before the night enveloped us. It was like the lull before the storm.

"Boring." Sherlock waved the television remote in the air in a half-hearted attempt to make something which he believed to be a menial task more interesting. "Dull." He pressed the button again. "Of course _she_ didn't do it, look at the style of shoe she wears! Even Anderson would be able to see that it was obviously the hamster!"

I knew that Sherlock was doing this to annoy me, to get my attention, but understanding this didn't make his actions any less irritating. Just as I struggled to see things as Sherlock did, he too failed to comprehend that, whilst _he _could see through each and every character, from each and every _programme,_ in seconds, I could not_._ I'd told him numerous times that my mind did not work things out as quickly as his did, but the only answer I had received was that I should spend more time using it in order to perfect this skill. He hadn't meant it as an insult - at least, I hoped that he hadn't - but it was hard to deny that it still sounded a little like one. My phone bleeped with a text alert. Sherlock instantly switched his attention from the television set to me, watching my every move as he tried to deduce who was texting me. If he was going to insist on doing this - and more to the point, if it would stop him moaning about boredom - then I wouldn't complain, but I would not give him the satisfaction of making it easy. The text was from Lestrade.

**Hi, John. Hope you're both well. What's Sherlock doing? Is he busy? Lestrade.**

"Go on then, have you worked out who's texting me yet?" I said, still looking at the screen, trying desperately not to give any clues away.

"Yes. Lestrade." As soon as he uttered the name, I knew that my attempts at discretion were no good, and so I succumbed to the urge to look at him. His own gaze had returned to the television, but his expression was smug.

"How could you _possibly _know that from all the way over there?" 'Incredulous' didn't even begin to cover how I was feeling.

Sherlock sighed, obviously trying to work out which task was less boring; watching television or explaining something to me that he deemed to be simplistic. It appeared to be the latter. "If it was Mrs Hudson, she would have sent the text to both of us in order to ensure that at least one of us received it. I've said before that Mycroft never texts if he can talk, so that rules him out too."

"What about Molly? How did you know that it wasn't her?"

"You don't really need to use your imagination here, John. I think it's quite obvious that Molly has, how shall we say, _feelings _for me. If she needed our attention, she would text _me_. This means that the only other person from whom you are likely to receive a text is Lestrade. Simple deduction." He sighed again, and I could've sworn that I heard him murmur that everything he had just explained was'obvious'.

Perturbed, I questioned him again. "How did you know that the text wasn't from Sarah? Or Jeanette? Or even somebody new?"

"I don't think we'll be hearing from the first two again for a while, do you?" He smirked. "_Those _dates were particularly disastrous, even by _your_ standards."

"Yeah, thanks for that," I said dryly. "You still haven't answered my last question; how do you know that the text wasn't from somebody new?"

"Easy. We haven't left the flat in ages. I'm evidently bored because I've had no cases - honestly John, why did you think I was watching television? - so how would you meet somebody new?" Sherlock paused for a second before impatiently demanding more information. "Well, what does Lestrade want? Is it a new case?"

"Don't know yet, he didn't say. I'll text him back and ask him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Couldn't you have done that whilst we've been talking?"

"Just keep on watching the television, Sherlock." I began typing out a reply.

"Why, what's it going to do? Tap-dance? That would be novel, I suppose, a tap-dancing television." Sherlock was muttering again. The easiest thing to do was just ignore him.

**We're fine thanks, not heard from you in a while. How's things? Not particularly, no. Please tell me you have a case for him. He's being irritating, picking fault with all the programs on our television! Do you want me to get him to call you? John.**

"That was a long text," said Sherlock. "Wouldn't it have been quicker to just ring him instead?"

This looked like a good time to change the subject, primarily because I was getting extremely tempted to throw a cushion at him. I wonder if Sherlock would know what had hit him - literally? The Holmes brothers did not seem the type to have pillow fights when they were younger. "Anything good on the television?" I asked innocently, attempting - and failing - to refrain from smirking as Sherlock glared at me.

"Everything's so _dull_."

"I believe that you've already pointed that out. Seven times, if I'm not mistaken." It was my turn to sigh. "I don't know, can't you go...read a book or something?"

"Already read them. And it was eight times, actually." Sherlock dismissed the idea almost instantaneously. I didn't like the calculating expression that was beginning to spread wickedly across his face. "John, fancy a game of Cluedo?"

"Fine, where is it?" I sighed with relief. His request had not been anywhere near as bad as what I'd expected. I had been anticipating something like 'John, go and fetch me some spare body parts from Bart's morgue' or something similar.

"In the shop. We don't have it. Can you go and buy it?"

The silence said it all. Well, the silence caused by my lack of a verbal reply, my body language, and the cushion that I threw at Sherlock said it all. He held his hands up in an appeasement gesture.

"Fine, can you go and buy it _please_?"

Remembering that it was dusk, the sunset signaling the onset of nighttime, I shook my head. There was no need to check my watch for the time. "Sorry, nothing I can do. All the shops are shut. It's gone closing time." My phone bleeped again. Another text from Lestrade.

**Oh dear, my sympathies. No, sorry, John, you're stuck with him for now. Can you do me a favour? Lestrade.**

My reply to _this _text was much quicker, due - in part - to my frustration that Lestrade had nothing to distract the detective with.

**Thanks a bunch (!) What favour? John.**

"What's the case?" Sherlock sounded like an over-excited child on their birthday. "There isn't one. Sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned but said no more about it. Inside, he was probably seething - a side effect of boredom and nicotine withdrawal on such a superior brain - but he rarely let such strong emotions show. He kept them hidden beneath his cold, unyielding mask. Sherlock kept his gaze aimed directly at the television screen, but it didn't take the intellect of a Holmes brother to know that he wasn't really watching it. Hoping that Sherlock was not watching me, I opened Lestrade's latest reply and read.

**We've got the new Chief Superintendent down at the station. Need to keep Sherlock out of the way if possible. You know what kind of first impression he creates, and we need this new guys' approval. Keep SH entertained for a while? Lestrade.**

"Why does Lestrade want me out of the way?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

I froze. Surely there was no way that Sherlock could have possibly deduced that _already_. There had to be more than one alternative as to why Lestrade would text if he didn't have a case for us, so why was Sherlock always right the first time? Why couldn't he need two or three guesses, like the rest of us?

"Alright, this is getting creepy." I set my phone down on the arm of the chair. "How did you know?" No matter how he knew, he didn't seem too upset with regards to what Lestrade had asked of me. To Sherlock, staying out of Lestrade's way probably equated to staying out of Anderson's way, something which he would've been more than happy to comply with. Sherlock deemed Anderson to be an absolute idiot. There was definitely no love lost between them, and it was better for everyone involved if they saw each other as little as possible.

Sherlock gave a wry smile. "I suppose I could say that I knew from your anxious glances in my direction, or that your heart rate has increased slightly due to anxiety over how I was going to react. These were both true, by the way, but sometimes John, you just need to pay attention. You read the text aloud, by accident I presume. 'You know what kind of first impression he creates'. I presume this was meant to be insulting?"

"Yeah, it was. Well, insulting but true." I conceded, picking up my phone and sending my reply, a gesture to acknowledge that I had accepted my mission. Phrasing it like that made it sound more interesting than agreeing to 'babysit Sherlock'.

**No worries. Will keep him distracted, but you owe me one. Good luck with the inspection. John.**

I pocketed my phone. "I am sorry about Cluedo though. Is there something else that you'd like to do instead?"

"I'm not a child, John" said Sherlock. Well, _that_ was debatable, but I thought it best to let it lie for the time being. "If you'd gone to the shops sooner, then you might have got there before they closed."

"I doubt it. Anyway, if you want to play Cluedo so much, why didn't _you_ go out and buy it earlier? I'm your blogger, not your personal shopper."

"I don't like shopping, it's..."

"If you say that it's 'boring', then I'll..." I interrupted the genius, unable to stand hearing him say the word 'boring' once more tonight, belatedly realising that I had no threat to follow on with.

"You'll...? You'll what?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed. Challenging me to do or say whatever it was that he had deduced I would do.

My phone bleeped again. What could Lestrade possibly want now? "Give me a second and I'll get back to you on that." I reached into my jacket pocket to retrieve my phone. Before I could see who had sent _this _text, Sherlock spoke again.

"It's from Molly."

I scoffed. I didn't believe him. Nobody could be that clever. It was just like the time when he had 'offered' to tell me the winning lottery numbers for that week. I hadn't fallen for that; there was no way that he could've known those numbers, and there was no way that he could've known who had sent me this text. I nearly dropped the phone in surprise when I saw that it was, indeed, from Molly. How many times could a man be wrong in a day? Unless your name was Mycroft or Sherlock, it seemed that the answer was 'quite a few'. Giving up on any attempt to keep the content of the message private - what was the point, he already knew who it was from - I read the text aloud, doing it knowingly this time.

_**Hi, John, it's Molly. Well, your caller ID probably told you that already! Was just wondering if you and Sherlock would like to come round to my house for a little while? Having a small gathering to celebrate my promotion. Molly xx**_

"Do you fancy going, Sherlock?"

He sighed, his chin resting on his fingertips as he used his hands to support the weight of his head. "Not really."

"Tough. We're going." I stood, snatched the television remote from him before he could feign interest in whatever programme was on, and switched the television set off. "Come on, grab your coat. I'm not having you moping around the flat whining about boredom now that we've just received an invitation to do something perfectly interesting."

"I wouldn't call it 'interesting', but I suppose there's nothing better to do. It's an improvement on watching all this rubbish on the television. It's so..."

"Sherlock," I warned. "What did I say about saying that everything was boring?"

"I wasn't going to say boring, even though it is." He muttered the last four words quietly, as if he hoped that I wouldn't hear them. "I was going to say 'predictable.'"

"Oh, er, okay."

Sherlock stood and began to walk towards his bedroom in order to retrieve his coat and scarf. He kept them hung up on the back of his bedroom door. "Just one thing, John. I don't understand why Molly is under the impression that we would want to _celebrate_ her promotion? I could understand her thinking that we would like to _congratulate_ her, but why would we want to celebrate? _Her _promotion doesn't affect _us._"

I leaned against the wall for support. Living with a genius was hard work some days. "For such a clever man, you really do say some stupid things."

Sherlock stood still, his scarf fastened around his neck but his coat still loose in his arms. "If you're going to bring the solar system up again, whether or not the Earth goes round the Sun, then I'm not..."

"No, I didn't mean that." Realising that I hadn't replied to Molly's invitation, I typed out our response and sent it whilst Sherlock fastened his coat and summoned a cab.

**Hi Molly. Sherlock and I would love to come, thanks for the invite. Will be round in about fifteen minutes? Congratulations again, by the way! John.**

We climbed into the cab and sat in silence as the cabbie drove through the streets of London. Silence around Sherlock was unusual, eerie even, and I had to say something to stop it.

"You've managed to disprove one of your own theories, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped staring out of the window and turned to face me. "No I haven't."

"Yes you have. You said that Molly would text _you _first if she wanted our attention, but she didn't. She texted me."

Sherlock did the we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here face, and I still found it as irritating as ever. "Sorry John, but you're wrong. Around an hour ago, Molly sent me the text you have just received, give or take a few pieces of unnecessary conversational trivia. I simply forgot to reply to it, but this _did_ help in my deductions in that I had always suspected Molly would text me first in a situation like this. She provided me with the proof, which allowed me to correctly deduce that it was Lestrade that texted you earlier."

I stared at him. "Why didn't you say anything about this an hour ago?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I forgot. It didn't really interest me because it was nothing of importance."

Although this _sounded_ like something that Sherlock would say, there was a part of my brain that told me he was lying. Since when did Sherlock _forget_ anything? His exterior gave away nothing as to what thoughts were going round his head, but I had an innate inkling that there was something not quite right with this picture. I would have to do a little deducing of my own if I wanted to work out why Sherlock was lying to me, but now was not the time. My text alert noise sounded again, startling me. Sherlock didn't appear to have heard it, but I knew better to believe that. The message was from Molly.

_**Great, can't wait to see you both! I have something to ask you anyway. See you soon! Molly xx**_


End file.
